Presidential Affairs
by Commander In Chief Contest
Summary: Edward Cullen is the youngest Commander in Chief ever. He's cocky, confident, and sitting at the top of the world. But will his presidential affairs bring The White House down?


**Story Title: Presidential Affairs**

**Summary: Edward Cullen is the youngest Commander in Chief ever. He's cocky, confident, and sitting at the top of the world. But will his presidential affairs bring The White House down?**

**Pairing: Edward and Bella**

**Rating: M**

**Word count: 5850**

**Disclaimer: All things Twilight belong solely to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.**

"And what's this one?" I ask, eyeing the thick document with multiple red tabs for my signature.

"That's the clean energy bill, Sir. The final draft."

I smile and sign my name in all of the indicated spots with a flourish, happy to be putting my name to something that will make a real difference. It feels good to start something that will continue to improve lives after my term is up.

I lean back in my desk chair, clasping my hands behind my head. "Is that all for this morning?"

"That's all that's pressing, Sir. Although if you'd like, we can get a jump on the -"

I hold up a hand to stop him. "Emmett, tell me about the new intern."

Emmett is part aide, part personal security, having come directly into the Secret Service from the Army. He's stoic and ever-professional, but he has a good heart. And he's built like a damn Mac Truck. Broad shouldered, and wearing his customary dark suit, he lets his impassive expression slip for just a moment.

He coughs into his fist, no doubt buying time to think, before answering. "The new intern, Sir?"

"Emmett, don't answer my question with another question. And don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. I saw her at the security desk getting her badge this morning."

He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, staring up at the ceiling. _Oh, he hates it when I do this. _It throws his neat little routine out the window, but I am _The_ _President of the United States. The Commander in Chief. The Big Kahuna._

"So… What do you think of her?"

"Sir?"

"What. Do. Think. Of. Her? The brunette… short black skirt… legs for days…" I turn my index finger in a circle to indicate that he should finish my description.

"Miss… Swan, Sir?" He asks. Yet another question answered with a question. If I didn't know better, I'd think Emmett was genuinely perplexed. In actuality, he knows exactly where this is headed. I'm officially trying his patience here, and he doesn't like it at all.

I grin and steeple my fingers under my chin. _Miss Swan_.

"She seems quite… _young_, Sir. But, from all accounts, she's very competent. She's from the State of Washington, and has an invested interest in underserved populations."

"And…"

"And she seems quite _lovely_, Sir," he says quickly, doing his best to skirt around the subject.

Nice save, Emmett. I smirk at him, trying to induce a smile, but his expression remains unchanged.

The White House interns are _all_ young and competent - they wouldn't be here if they weren't. We get the cream of the crop here, shuffling the others off to work under senators or other big-headed officials at the Capitol.

But even the most self-assured interns and aides get a case of nerves when they come in here - into the famed Oval Office - to stand in front of me.

"Emmett, I'd like _Miss Swan_ to bring me my coffee this morning."

He opens his mouth as if to protest, _loathing_ this game I like to play, but then remembers his place and simply says, "Sir," before turning on his heel and striding from my office.

Seventeen minutes later, the intercom on my desk comes to life with Alice's voice. She's my personal staffer who's posted just outside the door to my office. "Sir? Miss Swan has arrived with your coffee."

I smile and stand, straightening my tie and jacket, as if I'm the one who needs to do the impressing here. Under normal circumstances, a new intern bringing me coffee is the last thing I want. They're nervous, they shake, and they spill coffee everywhere. But the slamming of my heart in my chest and the moisture collecting on my palms tell me that these are anything but normal circumstances. Just in case, I move my papers to the side, out of the splash zone, in preparation for her arrival.

Emmett opens the door and gestures her in with a flourish. She steps into my office, every inch as tempting as I remember. Her dark chestnut hair is pulled up into a neat bun, and dark-framed glasses are perched on her nose.

"Mr. President, may I introduce Miss Isabella Swan. Miss Swan… The President of the United States, Edward Cullen."

Emmett catches me ogling Miss Swan, and he stifles an exasperated sigh. He mutters "I'll leave you to it -" no doubt finishing his sentence under his breath with something like '_you bastard_' before turning smartly on his heel and striding out the door.

_Miss Swan_ shifts in her black patent-leather pumps, as if she's unused to wearing heels. And she's still wearing that skirt. _And it's_ _way too short_. I can tell that my silence and my appraising eyes are unnerving her, but it seems that she's unwilling to speak first, so I finally put her out of her misery.

"Welcome to The White House, Miss Swan," I say, gesturing that she should approach my desk, bringing my coffee tray. "I trust that you've been made to feel welcome here?"

"Y-yes, Sir," she says, her voice shaking and betraying her outwardly calm appearance. "Everyone's been amazing… incredibly _accommodating_."

The delicate white cup with its pink fleur de lis pattern clatters against the saucer as she removes it from the tray and lowers it to my desk. A splash of dark coffee breaches the brim, splashing into the saucer. _And there it is._

I never really understood the need for saucers, thinking a standard coffee mug perfectly adequate, until I had a line of quaking aides and interns bringing me my daily caffeine charge.

"I'm sorry, Sir," she stammers, snatching the crisply folded, white linen napkin off the tray. She lifts the cup and sops up the spilled coffee, wiping the bottom of the cup carefully off before setting it back on the saucer.

I don't know if she's gotten it all, because all I can focus on is the top of her breasts, clearly visible as she leans over, bouncing with every move she makes. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, and the tip of her tongue peeks out between her pink lips. _Fuck. Me. Sideways._ My dick twitches at this mental image, and I clear my throat to get her attention - and to interrupt my own thoughts - extending my hand in greeting.

Her hand is cool and firm in mine, not shaky and sweaty as I had expected. With her other hand, she shoves her glasses back up her snub nose. She squares her slim shoulders, meets my gaze with a pair of chocolate-brown eyes, and raises one well-groomed eyebrow. I notice that she has a light smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and they only add to her charm. She's stunning and I'm captivated or - more accurately - _aroused._

I feel my pulse quicken, and I tighten my grip on her hand, feeling the energy course between us. She drops her gaze and the tip of her tongue darts out to lick her plump, pink lips. Just before I release her, I feel a shiver run through her body. _Oh, she feels it too._

"Please have a seat, Miss Swan," I say. "Tell me a little about yourself." And remove your breasts from my line of sight before I do something regrettable.

She steps back, looking down at the stained napkin in her hand. "Oh! I've used your napkin… I'm sorry… I can -"

"It's of no consequence," I say, waving her off. "So you're from Washington State? Seattle?"

She places the napkin on the serving tray, and the tray on her lap, as she sits - perches - on one of the upholstered chairs in front of my desk. She has no intention of making herself at home, and I'm confident that she'll dart for the door at the first possible chance.

"I did attend the University of Washington in Seattle, but I'm originally from Forks?" She phrases it as a question, knowing that - apart than from reading the _Twilight_ series - most people haven't heard of Forks.

"I'm familiar with Forks, Miss Swan. I was a Washington State Senator before this, you know."

Her face colors in embarrassment. And it's adorable. "I knew that," she says quickly.

"So… Forks. Daughter of a lumberjack?" I joke.

"No, a cop," she says, lifting her chin in pride.

_Oh boy. This is going to be fun. Dangerous maybe, but fun._

As if wanting to leave on a high note, she stands and gives me a little curtsy, bobbing her head and bending her knees slightly. It's an awkward gesture, and it endears me even more to this mysterious and prideful girl.

Just before she reaches the door, she fumbles and drops the serving tray with a clatter.

I try not to look, I really do, but when she bends down to retrieve it, I catch a glimpse of her lacy-topped stocking and creamy white thigh above it. Any higher and I'd be able to see the round base of her… _No. Don't go there, asshole. _But it's too late - I can feel the blood surging to my groin, and my pants are suddenly and uncomfortably tight.

I ask Alice to have Miss Swan to bring me my coffee at precisely 9 AM every day this week. On Tuesday, I order a cup of coffee for her as well, but she wrinkles up her nose at it and makes a hasty exit from my office.

On Wednesday, I order a cup of hot water and a selection of teas for her, adding honey and sugar to the order for good measure. I take careful notes as I watch her make her selections, and smile when she settles into her chair to sip her tea. And I know she's mine - at least for as long as it takes for her to finish her tea. _Bingo._

With her tea in hand, she opens up about her background. _Isabella Marie Swan_ was born in Forks, but after her parents divorced, she followed her mother in an ever-widening circle of new marriages. To Spokane. To Portland. To Phoenix. Finally, when she was seventeen, she put her foot down at following her mother to Florida. And she moved back to Forks for her senior year of high school. Her father, Charlie Swan, was a man of few words. But he was loving and stable, and exactly what Bella needed.

"So you were a political science major at the University of Washington?" I ask her. "What made you go into the field?"

She looked thoughtful for a moment, and I wait for the 'I want to make the world a better place' speech.

"My dad is the Chief of Police in Forks. Usually, he would come from work chipper and whistling, full of smiles and a 'How was your day, Bella?' But sometimes... sometimes he would come home and there would be silence, save the closing of the back door, the opening and closing of the fridge, and his heavy footsteps. I would give him a minute, and then come downstairs, knowing how I would find him. He would be in his old brown recliner, beer in hand, eyes empty and sad. He would look up at me and sigh, and without mincing his words, he would tell me about yet another officer who was injured or killed while just trying to do his or her job. Whether it was someone local or across the country... It hit close to home - for both of us - you know?"

I nod, awed that she was so perceptive to her father's feelings - and the sad state of the world - at such a young age. "I think, Miss Swan, that you and I are a lot alike. We don't just _want_ the world to be a better place. We dedicate our lives to _making_ it happen."

By Friday morning, she's become quite at home with her tea - lemon with a splash of honey - and her chair. She settles in, kicks off her heels, tucks her legs under herself, and fills me in on her employment history. After receiving her bachelor's in political science at the University of Washington, she followed a job opportunity - _and a man_ \- to Olympia.

"I was at City Hall while in Olympia, but I worked a string of odd jobs in college." She rattles them off quickly. "Dining hall hostess, Starbucks barista, exotic dancer…"

"Whoa. Hold up just a second. Don't think you can just slip that in there without me noticing. Exotic dancer?"

She giggles. "Well it was a brief stint. Very brief."

I'd like - _love_ \- for her to elaborate_. What did she wear? Was there glitter? A pole? Fistfulls of dollar bills?_

"And how did you end up here in Washington, DC?" I ask.

Her face colors, as she blushes in embarrassment, and she shrugs. "I followed a man. Again."

The same man or a different one? I want to ask her about this man - these_ men_ \- but I decide to drop it for the time being. After all, I'm in no position to judge her.

_**Later that afternoon...**_

"Emmett, clear my schedule for the rest of the day and bring Miss Swan to me. I'd like to give her a tour of the place."

"Sir," he nods and turns on his heel to go. I suspect he's rolling his eyes, but he has the good sense to do it while his back is turned.

"And Emmett? Have champagne and strawberries delivered here while we're gone."

Exactly thirty-seven minutes later, there's a knock on my door. _It's about fucking time. What took her so long?_ "Send her in, please."

She enters, wearing the same gray pencil skirt as this morning, but she's taken off the matching cropped blazer. Her sleeveless, ivory silk blouse is_ almost_ sheer, and it doesn't leave a lot to the imagination. I can see the peaks of her nipples against the fabric… Is she not wearing a bra?

She clears her throat and I quickly move my gaze from her chest to her face, and see that she's smirking at me. _Busted._

I quickly gather myself and turn on the charm. "Have you been given a proper tour, Miss Swan?"

"Yes… of course, um, to the copier… the coffee machine…"

"Ah. Well, they skipped over my favorite parts." I shake my head, feigning annoyance. "May I have the honor?"

Her eyes dart around my office which is, of course, one of the highlights of any White House tour. It really is oval, and very impressive and - if this tour ends the way I hope - it'll be quite _memorable_ for both of us.

"All right," she says softly. And without wasting any more time, I usher her out of my office and through the antechamber, where Alice sits at her post, trying to look busy and uninterested in my more _personal_ _affairs_. She looks up as we pass, and I see her give Ms. Swan a tight little smile and a nod, as if reassuring her.

I urge Miss Swan forward and up the wide hallway, which is carpeted wall-to-wall in a plush, presidential blue. It's uncharacteristically deserted for a Friday afternoon, and our footsteps hardly disturb the quiet, muffled as they are by the carpet's thick padding.

She folds her arms, tucking her hands in at her sides and leaning forward slightly, as we walk. It's the movement and posture of a young person, and I have to remind myself that this girl is likely fresh from college, only recently having traded in her backpack and scurrying walks across campus for a suit and these opulent surroundings.

"Oh, here we go," I say, stopping at a door on the right side of the hallway. "The Dish Room."

She lets out a little snort - _she snorted!_ I think I'm in love. "I believe it's called _The China Room_," she says, pointing to the little brass plaque outside the door.

I shrug and pull open the door, gesturing for her to enter ahead of me. "Ah yes, _The China Room_," I say, changing my voice to the pretentious tone of one whose home contains such a room. "I thought you might find it interesting."

All around us, in lighted white wall cabinets, are sets of dishes in chronological order - one for each President who has lived in The White House - traditionally selected by each of the First Ladies. They sit on glass shelving against a red background, and it's an impressive display of colorful china and glittering flatware and crystal.

"Here are some of the earliest sets," I begin, stopping in front of the first case. "The blue and white dishes of Thomas Jefferson… Polk's with the red geraniums. Did you know that a full set of china must have at least 120 settings? George W. Bush had the largest formal set at 320…"

But Miss Swan doesn't appear to be interested in this first case. She walks slowly around the periphery of the room, and suddenly I know what she's looking for, the dishes from the most recent presidencies.

"Oh… those modern ones aren't too interesting" I say, hurrying to her side, reaching out as if to grasp her elbow and pull her away. But she tucks her hands into her sides again and purses her lips, staring straight ahead at the very last set of dishes. They're white, with a delicate pink fleur de lis pattern, with sturdy hand-blown wine glasses and champagne flutes, and matching flatware. The label in front of the set proclaims in gold script:

**President and First Lady Edward Cullen 2020 -**

I'm married. Yes, of course, I'm married. There's a platinum ring of fire on my finger and, after all, my life is an open book. Every last detail of the past two years - from the time that I announced my bid for the presidency to now, has been photographed, written about, analyzed, and criticized. Everything from my shoe size to my favorite brand of toothpaste… to my wife's smiling face at my side, dressed to coordinate with me in various patriotic - yet tasteful - dresses, suits, and hats.

She finally tears her eyes away from the dishes, looking down to pick at an invisible imperfection on one of her nails.

"Come," I say softly. "This wasn't the best idea. Let's go somewhere more… entertaining."

She looks up at me and smiles, nodding her assent. We travel further down the hallway, and her eyes flick to a set of double doors, which are guarded by a single, stoic security guard. It's unclear whether he's trying to keep people out or maybe _keep them in._

"What's in there?" She asks softly, once we're out of earshot of the guard.

"My - um - _personal quarters_," I say, not needing to clarify what or _who_ was behind those doors.

Her lips round in a perfect 'o' but she doesn't comment.

Our next destination is just ahead on the left, and again I open the door and she enters ahead of me. The dim lighting is just bright enough to reveal the plush couches and recliners, the snack counter, and the huge projection screen.

"You have your own theater?" She squeaks, clapping her hands in glee. "Can we watch something?"

I nod._ Now we're talking_. All thoughts of _The First Lady_ seem to evaporate as she checks out the snack counter. The popcorn in the machine is fresh, and there are rows of theater-style candy boxes. Dots, Mike & Ike's, Twizzlers... She snatches up a box of Junior Mints while I fill a bucket of popcorn and grab a couple of diet sodas.

We make ourselves comfortable on one of the wine-colored plush couches, with the popcorn bucket between us. I turn on the equipment and the screen comes to life. "You pick," I say. "We have… everything."

She takes the remote from me and scrolls through Netflix before settling on an episode of _The Great British Baking Show._ I just barely keep myself from rolling my eyes, but honestly I don't really care what's on. I'll be watching _her_.

For the next twenty minutes, we munch our way through the snacks and drain our sodas. Her eyes stay glued to the screen as she applauds the contestants' successes and throws her hands over her face in mock horror at their failures.

I'm trying to decide how to make my move, and I feel more like an acne-prone teenager than The Commander in Chief when I see her put her hand in the popcorn bucket and stop, leaving it there while she laughs over something on the screen. She lets out the most adorable squeal of frustration, and my dick comes to life. _This is it_. "I cannot believe that he forgot to preheat the oven," she moans.

Pretending to keep my eyes on the screen, although I couldn't care less what those British fuckers are saying, I slide my hand into the bucket alongside hers, tracing the line of her hand all the way from her wrist to her fingertips. The tips of her fingers are gritty with salt and slick with butter. _And really, I have no choice but to be a gentleman and clean them off, right?_

I slip my fingers through hers, lacing our hands together, and lift them out of the bucket. She tenses and I hear her inhale sharply, but her eyes remain on the screen. Slowly, I bring our hands up and untangle our fingers, bringing hers to my mouth. I touch my tongue the tip of her pointer finger, tasting the salt. She lets out a little _mmm_ sound, but doesn't try and pull her hand away, so I suck it into my mouth up to the knuckle, swirling my tongue around it, feeling my pants tighten with every stroke.

I hope she that lets me follow through with my plans, or I'm going to have some explaining to do. And I'll have to make a hasty trip to the executive bathroom. And I really don't like to _relieve myself_ in there. I can't help but think of all the other presidents who've had to - _never mind._

I repeat the process with each of her fingers until she's licked clean - of butter and salt, anyway. "All clean," I say. "Except -" I squint my eyes and peer at her chest, fixating on an imaginary speck of popcorn. I make as if to pick it off her breast, but skim my thumb across her nipple instead, and I'm rewarded when I feel it harden beneath my touch.

She moans again, throwing her head back as I lean in and replace my hand with my mouth. When I pull away, there's a wet spot on her shirt, and I can see the darker circle of her skin beneath the thin silk.

"No bra, Miss Swan? And in the workplace too. I approve," I say.

"I was feeling a little naughty," she says, and then she makes a move of her own, straddling my lap and capturing my mouth with hers. She tastes of mint and popcorn - sweet and a little salty. Innocent and _a little naughty_.

She's up on her knees, hovering over me, and I slide my hands up her thighs, skimming over silk and then lace, and finally smooth skin.

"I thought I caught a glimpse of thigh-highs," I growl. "You get another vote of approval from me."

She releases my mouth and rests her forehead on mine. She's breathing hard, and rasps out, "What else? I want to meet with your approval, _Sir._"

I continue to slide my hands upward and there's more smooth skin, nothing covering her ass, which feels round and perfect under my hands. At last, up at her hips, I find two thin strings and follow them inward, and down, and then stop. "A thong, Miss Swan…_ Isabella_?" I ask, trying out her first name.

"Mmm hmm. You like?"

I don't answer out loud, just thrust my hips upward, driving myself into her core, craving the most intimate contact. She pushes back against me, and I know she can feel just how much_ I like._

We rock back and forth for several moments until her head falls to my shoulder, and she bites down, letting me feel her teeth through my suit coat and shirt.

I slide my hand lower, and feel her wet warmth through the satin. She's ready.

Her body jerks and she whispers one word. "Please."

I chuckle and pull my hand away. "Not here. I want you in my office."

She lets out a little groan of frustration, but climbs off me, finding her feet and - more than likely - her dignity. She smooths her hair with one hand, checking the integrity of her bun, and pulls on the hem of her skirt with the other.

Having none of this nonsense, I stand and grab her around the waist, throwing her over one shoulder before striding toward the door.

"Mr. President… um, _Edward_," she shrieks. "Put me down!"

Confident that the hallway will be deserted, save a pair of discreet security officers, I just grip her tighter and keep walking. She squirms against my shoulder, but has the good sense to keep quiet.

"Alice," I say curtly as we pass by her desk. Alice never, ever leaves her post. I am not sure if the woman eats or uses the bathroom. And I can only assume that she goes home at night.

"Sir. Miss Swan," she greets, as if oblivious to the fact that I have a brunette slung over one shoulder.

I think I hear Miss Swan say, "Oh my God," and giggle against my back, but I'm not certain.

Inside my office, I cross the room to the red Victorian couch that sits at the opposite end from my desk. I lower her onto the brushed velvet upholstery and kneel, settling between her knees.

"This couch was commissioned in 1797 by First Lady Abigail Adams," I say casually, as if ready to launch into a history lesson about The White House furnishings.

"It was?" She squeaks, horrified, and moves to close her thighs.

"Well, a reproduction of that couch anyway," I say.

She grins and leans forward to kiss me again, then spots the silver bowl of strawberries and the bottle of champagne in its ice bucket, two flutes beside it. She raises one eyebrow, but then thinks better of questioning my motives and reaches for a strawberry.

We feed each other strawberries and trade small sips of champagne from a single, hand-blown flute until her eyes flick to the grandfather clock in the corner, reminding us both that we're in a bubble, with the real world just outside. And time is ticking away.

She stands and walks over to my desk, her fingers sliding over the crystal candy dish that once held Ronald Reagan's favorite - black licorice Jelly Bellies. Now it holds my not-so-secret favorite, Brach's candy corn. She lifts the lid and takes a single piece, popping it into her mouth. Her hand continues to move across my desk, along my fine paper ink blotter and finally to the red telephone on my desk. She lifts the old-style phone and perches on my desk in its place, holding the heavy instrument in her lap.

"You seem confident that we won't be interrupted. What if this phone rings?"

I smile. "That phone is a decoration… a nod to the myth that it used to be a direct line to the Kremlin. I don't think it's actually connected to anything."

"If it_ does_ ring, can I answer it?" she asks, her lips pulled into a pout.

"The chances of it ringing in the next half hour are slim to none. But. You. Can. Do. Anything. You. Like." As I speak, I remove the phone from her lap, and then each piece of her clothing - one by one. Except for the thigh-highs. Those stay.

Her hands push my suit jacket off my shoulders, and I hear it hit the floor behind me. Her fingers work my belt and pants, and then shove my pants down around my hips.

I lay her back onto my desk bringing up her heels to rest on the edge, then - finally release myself from my boxers, taking a moment to stroke my _presidential staff_ and admire the sight in front of me. Isabella on my desk, ready and waiting for me, her head nearly hanging off the edge, next to top-secret documents and a framed photograph of my family. Beyond her is the expanse of the most famous office in the world, and then the green slope of the White House lawn through the window.

I look into her eyes, checking for any sign of regret, but there's none. She just smiles and gives me a little nod. I grip the far edge of my desk, one hand on either side of her head, and thrust into her. _And it feels like home._

"Half an hour? You didn't last five minutes, Mr. President," she teases.

I shrug and scoop her up, carry her back over to the couch. _No man - no matter who he is or how much power he holds - could last inside of her._

There are a pair of navy pajama bottoms and a white silk robe waiting for us on a chair by the window. As reluctant as Emmet seems to comply with my whims, the man sure does think of everything.

I slide the pajama pants on and offer her the robe. She puts it on, tying the sash in a neat bow, then releases her hair from its bun, shaking her head and letting it cascade down her back.

I slide one hand around to the nape of her neck, feeling her soft tresses on the back of my hand. "Isabella," I murmur, letting her name roll off my tongue. "So beautiful."

We settle back on the couch and finish off the strawberries, and I pour another flute of champagne. She holds up her hand and shakes her head, so I go over to the bar and fill a glass of ice water for her instead. We sip our beverages and chat for a few minutes, making small talk as if we're afraid that the quiet will turn to awkwardness.

At last, as we both knew it would, Alice's voice comes through the intercom, bursting our bubble once and for all.

"Sir?"

She doesn't need to tell me who it is. Only one person is permitted to interrupt us.

"Send him in," I say. I'm the opposite of irritated, eager to meet our visitor as I walk toward the door.

Rosalie, the nanny, enters and she's all smiles and cooing, carrying her precious bundle. "We're up from our nap and ready for some Daddy time."

My son - young Master Masen Charles Cullen - is, in fact, wide awake. His green eyes are wide, and one very wet fist is tucked in his mouth. I take him from Rosalie and she gives me a nod before whisking from the room.

Masen settles into my shoulder and I revel in the solid weight of him, the clean baby smell of his spiky hair. He relaxes into me for a moment before I feel his body tense**. **He spots his mother over my shoulder and, no doubt hungry after his nap, he begins to fuss and reach out his chubby hands for her.

"All right… All right… Shh, here we go," I croon, walking him over to his mother.

Bella smiles and takes him, opening her robe and settling him in at her breast, leaning back and tucking one - most likely expensive - reproduction pillow under her arm.

I lean down and kiss her softly. "Thank you for a fun afternoon… a fun week."

"You're very welcome. And I found my internship to be very… _satisfying_."

I sit down next to her, picking up the glass of champagne, and just watch my wife and son for a few moments. Finally, I have to ask. "Exotic dancer? You made that up."

She shakes her head. "I did not. It was… a contest, not really a job. But hey… I was a poor college student and the prize was _two hundred dollars._"

"And did you win?"

"Of course I did," she smirks, and then quiets, looking down at her fingers, which are clutched in our son's fist.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask softly.

"I'm thinking… next week you should have to call IT. You know - problems with your _hard drive_, or maybe you're in need of a sexy hacker…"

An image of messy braids, a tight, alternative rock band t-shirt, flannel shirt tied around a slim waist, and combat boots flashes through my head and straight to my groan. "As much as I'll love that, maybe we should take a week off. I swear that every gray hair on Emmet's head is because of us."

"Yeah… but he loves us," she grins. "And you _did_ walk in on him and Rosalie in the surveillance room that one time."

That's true. Rosalie came into our lives when Masen was just a week old. And Emmett owes us, because not even a month later, he was into _her_. And I'll never be able to wipe that mental image from the surveillance room from my memory. I thought he was just standing closely behind her, showing her something on one of the monitors. Concerned that it might be something to do with my newborn son, I moved closer... and realized they weren't just standing there. Her skirt was hiked up in the back, his pants were lowered in front and... I can never _unsee_ it. The memory gives me shivers right down my spine.

Yep, they all love us… each and every one of our dedicated, ever-patient, and _very discreet _staff. They know that our lives are in the spotlight too often, and that we can't just go out on date nights when we please. So they go along with our games, clearing the hallways of non-essential personnel and looking away as needed.

We're the young, liberal power couple out of Washington State. A state senator who fell in love with the mayor's aide at the city building. We're the youngest President and First Lady ever to live in The White House. And it doesn't hurt that baby Masen - conceived on the campaign trail somewhere between Dayton and Buffalo - arrived four short months after we took up residence here. Now, at eight months old, he's charmed everyone from the chef - who's constantly cooking up new baby foods for him to try - to the Secret Service. These famous, stoic men in black will whip a needed pacifier or teething biscuit from their suit pockets at a moment's notice.

We can get away with _just about anything_. After all, I am the -

"I love you Mr. President," Bella whispers, leaning in to rest her head on my shoulder.

"And I love you, my First Lady."


End file.
